


going public

by simplyclockwork



Series: oh captain, my captain [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captain John Watson, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Fondling, In Public, Innuendo, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Over the Clothes, POV Sherlock Holmes, Under the Table, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25002805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: In which Captain John Watson joins Sherlock on a case, they're both utter horndogs, and tablecloths are appreciated.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: oh captain, my captain [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740022
Comments: 28
Kudos: 147





	going public

**Author's Note:**

> There might be more tags needed, but I couldn't think of any.

Showered, dried, and dressed, Sherlock watches John read the paper with a slice of jam-topped toast in his hand. The scene feels strangely domestic despite the two of them still being almost complete strangers. Fingers steepled together, rubbing along his bottom lip, he studies the soldier in silence, turning over the things said earlier in bed and the depths of meaning behind their words. 

When John looks up, catching his stare, his mouth curves up at the corner, a sharp little smirk. The sight of it sends a thrill down Sherlock’s spine. Despite the ache in his body and the fact that sitting is almost unbearable, his soft cock gives a half-hearted little twitch of interest. 

His phone rings and Sherlock grabs it, not entirely sure if he’s grateful or annoyed at the interruption.

It’s Lestrade. He has a case. Across from him, sitting in a threadbare red chair like he belongs there, John finishes his toast and glances at Sherlock. Something in his eyes—hot, smouldering, feral—makes Sherlock’s breath catch in his throat. Swallowing around the tightness, he coughs. 

“We’ll be there in fifteen.” He hangs up the phone, cutting off Lestrade’s confused squawk of, _who is us?_

“We’re going somewhere?” John asks, setting his crumb-littered plate aside. His face is bright and interested, gaze intrigued and sweeping over Sherlock’s body when Sherlock stands.

“A case.”

“A case?” 

Sherlock nods, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Remember when you asked about my handcuffs?”

John’s tongue flicks out, poking to the corner of his mouth. “You said you were a...consulting detective?” Brows rising, he cocks his head to the side. “You never did explain what that was.”

Smile shifting toward a smirk, Sherlock moves toward the front door. “If you come with me, you’ll find out.” 

Following, John’s eyes flash with something dark and predatory. “Can’t wait.”

***

When Lestrade opens his mouth to protest John’s presence, Sherlock shuts him down quickly and efficiently. After he uncovers Lestrade’s recent divorce and new relationship— _with a man, interesting_ —the DI subsides, letting his complaints die. 

The case is basic, and Sherlock deduces the cause of murder and suspect within minutes of arriving on scene. John hangs back and watches. Whenever Sherlock catches his eye, he sees a glimmer there, John’s expression coveting and hungry. 

Seated in the back of Lestrade's cruiser, Sherlock breathes deeply to settle the arousal rising in his body. It’s no easy feat, not with John speaking hot against his jaw, whispering soft praises, his voice heavy with admiration and lust.

“God, you’re brilliant,” he breathes. His fingers brush Sherlock’s thigh, tracing the inseam of his trousers. “How are you so smart? It’s not fair, that face and that bloody brain of yours.” His groan is soft, only audible to the two of them in the back seat. “You _gorgeous_ fucking man, I wish I could have you on my cock right now.” John’s hand slides a little further up, teasing Sherlock’s not uninterested body through expensive fabric. “Do you think he’d notice?” His eyes flicker to the front seat, where Lestrade is focused on the road. “If I jerked you off, right here, right now? Think you could keep quiet so he wouldn’t hear?” He cups Sherlock’s growing hardness, palming him with teasing pressure. 

His words and hand send a rush of needy desire through Sherlock’s body. He releases a low whimper, impossible to contain, and Lestrade’s eyes dart to the rear-view mirror. He shifts the sound into a cough, flashing a false smile until Lestrade looks back to the road. John’s smirk is evident against his ear, tongue slipping out to tickle flushed skin as he retracts his hand.

“Guess not,” he murmurs, chuckling. “What a shame.” Sherlock shifts in his seat, subtly adjusting himself, his face hot and red. 

***

John is brilliant. Sherlock already knew this, but his deductions are limited to John’s prowess in bed and his feats of strength. He knows John can run, knows he is exceptionally fit. Knows how he looks doing one-armed pushups. 

None of that prepares him for seeing John in action. If he had any less self-control, Sherlock would kiss Lestrade for the case, even if it is only a four. On a typical day, he would verbally eviscerate the man for dragging him out to something so beneath him. Today, he barely resists singing his praises. Today, he sees John in a whole new light. 

The suspect is all too easy to locate. When they reach his house, they knock on his door. No one answers, but John lingers by the road, watching with crossed arms. His shout draws Sherlock and Lestrade’s attention.

“Oi! He’s going out the back!” 

“Don’t let him get away!” Sherlock snaps, whirling on his heel to give chase. He is speaking to Lestrade, a reminder for the DI to not be his usual bungling self, but John responds first. Before Sherlock has even cleared the walkway, the soldier is moving. Like a bullet from a gun, he surges forward, powerful legs taking him quickly after the fleeing suspect. Sherlock skids to a halt, stunned, his cock hardening at the sight of John’s sprinting form. 

When he takes the suspect down, John lunges and grabs the man around the waist, bearing them both to the ground with a grunt. The man cries out and struggles, but John pins him without much of a struggle. By the time Lestrade and Sherlock reach them, the suspect is flat on his stomach and limp, surrendering to the unrelenting pressure of John’s knee between his shoulder blades. 

Watching Lestrade cuff the man, Sherlock’s breath comes faster and harder than the short chase warrants, and John glances at him with dark, knowing eyes. It takes all of Sherlock’s self-control not to leap on him. Calming himself, he offers Lestrade his parting comments, bids him goodbye, and finds himself alone with John. 

“That was…” he begins before John steps forward, hooks a hand around the nape of his neck, and yanks Sherlock down for a kiss. There is nothing chaste about it, just a full-blown, PDA snog, John’s tongue tracing his bottom lip, slipping into his mouth, rubbing against his own. Sherlock groans, lets John swallow the sound down, and fists his hands in the front of John’s shirt. In full view of anyone who might pass by, Sherlock feels himself harden and quake, John’s body rigid against his own. “...amazing,” he gasps, dazed when their lips briefly part.

“If we weren’t in public, I’d have you bent over, right here, screaming my name,” John growls between kisses, grinding against Sherlock’s hip. His mouth is like fire, devouring the air from Sherlock’s lungs, erasing the thoughts from his head before they even form. 

When they break apart again, only far enough to share one another’s breath, Sherlock opens his mouth to speak when his stomach rumbles. It is loud, demanding, and he flushes from head to toe at the abrupt interruption. 

John’s response is a loud snort, mirth flickering in his eyes. 

“I guess I can’t expect you to subside on cock alone,” he says, and Sherlock nearly swallows his tongue. Clearing his throat, he rubs at his burning face.

“It...has been a while,” he admits, and John strokes a slow, soothing hand down his spine.

“Know anywhere good?” 

Sherlock grins. “Actually, I do.”

***

As always, Angelo is thrilled to see him. His doting is embarrassing, the man fawning over him and shooting curious, suggestive looks between Sherlock and John. After he sets a ‘romantic candle’ on the table and finally leaves them alone with their menus, Sherlock sags with relief. 

“Sorry about him,” he offers, uncomfortable. Seated adjacent to him, John nudges his foot with his own.

“Don’t be.” He quirks an eyebrow, smile slow and secretive as Sherlock looks over the menu at him. Sherlock blinks hard before dropping his eyes. 

“See anything you might like?” he asks, wondering why he suddenly feels so timid. 

John’s foot slowly slides up his leg. “Oh, I definitely _do.”_ Sherlock shivers, his eyelashes fluttering. 

“Oh,” he breathes, pulse quickening. “I’m...not sure that’s on the menu.” His attempt at levity sounds flat in his own ears, and he feels a strange surge of panic. But John is watching him with darkening eyes, and his boot is moving steadily higher up the inside of Sherlock’s leg. 

“That’s okay,” he says, voice heavy with innuendo. “I’m always willing to wait for dessert.” His teeth sink against his bottom lip, eyes darting to Sherlock’s mouth. 

Sherlock shivers again, breathing a slow, shuddering breath. “Your patience is admirable, Captain.” 

John’s smile widens. “Oh, baby, you have _no_ idea.” 

Angelo reappears to take their order, and John’s foot drops back to the floor. Sherlock releases a loud sigh. Crossing his legs, he winces at the feeling of a half-erection, John’s eyes knowing and amused as he gives his order. 

***

When their food comes, Sherlock finds himself tucking in with unusual relish. John watches him for a moment before looking down at his own food. His lips curl in an almost smile, and he catches Sherlock’s eye.

“Is it okay?” Sherlock asks, his brow furrowed when John doesn’t immediately start eating. John tilts his head. 

“Oh, yeah, all good.” A glint dances in his eyes, shadows flickering over his face in the candlelight. Tucked in the corner as they are, their table is shrouded with ambience. It feels secluded and deliciously private, and John’s voice is a low growl as he says, “This looks amazing, but there’s something else I’d rather be eating right now.”

Sherlock barely avoids choking on his chicken carbonara at the words. Swallowing, he takes a sip of water to buy himself time. His hand shakes, sloshing the liquid about in the glass. John’s smile widens. 

“God, you’re so responsive,” he sighs, spellbound. “I can hardly stand it.” 

Sherlock offers a weak smile in response, his body alight with desire. To keep himself busy, he clumsily scoops food into his mouth. John’s hand lands on his thigh, and his body goes still. “Oh,” he breathes, eyelids sinking to half-mast at the feeling of fingers kneading slowly along his inner thigh. _“Oh…”_

Grinning, John props his chin in his free hand, elbow on the table, watching Sherlock’s face. “Oh, yeah,” he says, voice unbearably smug. “Should I stop?” He shoots a glance around the busy restaurant, feigning concern. “Even with the tablecloth, someone might notice.” His eyes return to Sherlock’s face, his expression rapacious, ravenous. “I should probably stop.” His hand drifts higher, fingers brushing the crease at the crotch of Sherlock’s trousers despite his words.

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock whispers, tone heavy with longing. “Oh, fuck, don’t you _dare_ stop.” 

John’s teeth flash, lips curling in a predatory display. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I wouldn’t dream of it.” His hand moves higher, fingertips stroking over Sherlock’s growing erection. Even through two layers of fabric, through his trousers and pants, the touch is exquisite, his body thrumming with expectation, aching for more after being teased earlier. John’s palm curves over the shape of him, and Sherlock whimpers, unable to help himself. Someone at a nearby table shoots them a curious glance. John smiles politely and nods, and they return to their conversation, none the wiser. John presses lightly, applying slow friction, and Sherlock has to bite his lip to silence the moan rising in his throat. 

“Oh my god,” he hisses, quiet enough that only John hears. “Oh my _god.”_

One sweep of John’s free hand knocks his napkin to the floor. In the guise of bending to pick it up, he leans toward Sherlock and whispers, “Touch me.” The words send a shiver up Sherlock’s spine, and his hand is moving of its own accord before John is even sitting fully upright again. 

When he touches the front of John’s jeans, he finds him already hard, his thick cock straining at the rough fabric. Sherlock’s eyes threaten to roll back in his head, and he traces the length with his fingertips, biting down on his tongue to resist the urge to pant. John strokes him slowly, painfully measured, making Sherlock’s hips twitch with the instinctual compulsion to rut. 

“Ah, John…” he whispers, eyes sliding closed. “Fuck, _fuck, John.”_ He strokes John in return, the soldier’s breathing quickening, lips parted with bliss. 

“Oh, yes,” John murmurs, gripping Sherlock through his trousers. “Yeah, yes, just like that, sweetheart. Just like that.” Leaning a little closer, he whispers in Sherlock’s ear, “First one to make a noise loses.”

Angelo appears at their table, his voice startling Sherlock’s eyes back open, painting an instant blush across his face.

“Dessert time!” the man exclaims, setting a decadent dish in front of them. _“Affogato al Caffè,_ topped with a cream-filled _pirouette._ On the house for you and your date. Please enjoy!” Clearing away their mains, he leaves them alone once more. 

Sherlock is sure his face must be brick red, mortification warring with arousal as John continues his slow, teasing caress beneath the table. The feeling of embarrassment fades, watching John reach out for the long, thin, cream-filled cookie topping the dish. He brings it to Sherlock’s mouth with a raised eyebrow, encouraging him to open. When he does, John drags the treat over his bottom lip, leaving a dab of sweet cream upon the flesh. Sherlock shudders and, glancing around to make sure no one is watching, lets his tongue flick out to taste. The cream is heavy and thick, drawing an aborted moan to his throat. John nods encouragingly, watching with rapt eyes. Sherlock laps cream into his mouth before taking the cookie between his lips with a slow, cheek-hollowing suck.

John’s pupils widen, nearly overtaking the bright blue colour of his irises. Sherlock smirks in response, sucking the treat deeper. It’s not very long, and John’s fingers quickly meet Sherlock’s lips, pausing to smear the cream with his thumb. 

As Sherlock crunches down on the offering, John’s hand quickens on him. His hips jerk forward under the table, chair legs scraping over the floor. Sherlock’s cheeks flood with colour again, and he fondles John a little harder, making the soldier bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting. Holding his gaze, John spoons up a bit of coffee-drenched ice cream. He offers it to Sherlock, staring as he laps at the cold dessert, his eyes impossibly dark. 

“Jesus fucking christ,” John gasps, voice barely more than a whisper. “All I can think about right now is you licking my cock like that ice cream.”

Smiling crookedly, Sherlock opens his mouth wide and takes the ice cream and spoon past his lips, holding eye contact with John as he resists the urge to gag on the utensil. John’s breathing whooshes out from his nose in a loud gust and his hand twitches between Sherlock’s legs. 

“We’re leaving,” he says, voice hard and strangled. “Right now. If I don’t have you _right fucking now,_ I’m going to lose my mind.” 

Nearly falling out of his chair in his haste, Sherlock catches Angelo’s eye and chokes out, “Check, please!” 

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued...


End file.
